Beyond the Horizon
by nivlac
Summary: Michael, The Lone Wanderer, has become bored with the monotony of the Capital Wasteland. After packing his bags, he sets out on a journey to cross America and even further beyond that.


**Sup you beautiful bastards. Read this shit.**

Michael awoke, rubbing the sleep from his weary eyes. He sat up from his torn up white sheet less mattress, seeing the rusted metal walls and floor that made up his entire home. His green blanket had somehow found its way onto his floor as he slept, and he groaned. His bare feet felt cold, and if there was one thing he hated more that the enclave, it was cold toes. Michael looked over to his corner desk, seeing a massive array of junk and other items atop of its recently dusted surface. He set his feet down on the cold metal of his floor, and stood up from his bed.

Michael ignored the dizziness that ensued immediately after, and walked through his open doorway. He still didn't understand why he never installed a door; while Michael was the only one living here aside from Dogmeat, sometimes Wadsworth would simply… float in the doorway and stare at him. It made Michael incredibly uncomfortable, and made him want to rip off the robots damned eyes out, all three of them. His long black hair felt greasy, as did his rough beard.

Showers weren't easy to come by in the wasteland.

His hand gripped the railing that led down the stairs, and he stepped down it, hearing the metal creak beneath his heavy footsteps. With all the jagged metal sticking out of the floor, it was a miracle that he hadn't gotten tetanus. Michael walked over to his front door a few feet away from the bottom of the stair case, and pulled the door open, the sun flashing down on his eyes.

He raised his right hand upwards, and blocked the light from destroying his retina, and shut the door, mumbling curses. It was getting close to winter, but the damned sun was still unclouded by any weather. Was his pip-boy wrong when it came to the date? It said it was November; shouldn't the weather be turning at least a little bit shitty?

It wasn't right. This would be his first winter outside of the cramped confines of vault 101, and he was, to say the least, excited. Michael's never seen snowfall in his life, and he couldn't wait to experience it.

Sadly, Mother Nature was being a crabby bitch and holding out on the flakes.

His black Chinese stealth suit clung to his skin, and it chafed. Michael decided that it was high time to stop sleeping in the damned thing. He looked around his front room, seeing his complete bobble head collection being stared at by Wadsworth. The tri-eyed robot seemed transfixed on them, and all three of his arms did a full rotation around his body. The jet like device that kept Wadsworth propelled off of the ground kicked up a bit of dust up off of the ground that surrounded the robot, covering its white metal chassis in the substance.

Along with his blonde haired blue-suit wearing bobble heads. Michael sneered, and shook his head, and went over to the kitchen, rounding the corner and seeing his white fridge next to his sink. He pulled open the refrigerator, seeing a bottle of brown alcohol to his right in the door of the fridge.

He had found it the other day after he blasted some poor raiders face off, and found this on the corpse. He grabbed it, and uncorked the lid, swilling it down. Booze was the best way to wake up, and it was the only thing that kept him from murdering everything around him. He had enough of a hard time with that being sober, but thankfully for the annoying citizens of Megaton, alcohol heightened his mood.

He took in a deep breath after re-corking the lid, and flashed a tooth filled grin.

It was time to get ready for the day.

…

…

…

George was a simple man; he loved killing, raping, and stealing. He was a raider after all; these were things that he and all of his friends took great pleasure in doing. The dark room that he and his crew found himself in was near pitch black, the only thing showing light was the small lamp in the middle of the round table that they found themselves sitting at.

George looked down to his cards, and grinned. All aces, there was no way he was losing this bet. He couldn't believe his luck. His three buddies all had good poker faces, not conveying a single emotion. They too, were shrouded in darkness; the only things being visible were their forearms holding the cards.

His short brown hair felt oily, and while he may not be the cleanest person in the universe, he still liked taking at least one bath a month. His pile of caps was small, as he was dealt several bad hands at the beginning, yet with this hand, he could get it all back, and possibly more. The moment that everyone was about to lay down their hands however, the door to the groups left was kicked in.

The room was then illuminated with sunlight, and in the doorway stood a massive figure. He had to be at least six 'four, and was almost wider than the doorway. He held a basic combat knife in his right gloved hand, which he twirled between his fingers. He wore power armor that was as white as snow, and the helmet had a thin, black visor along with a couple of hoses leading to the back of the helmet from the mouth piece.

A small flashlight was on the forehead of the helmet, and the pauldrons had small, black stars on the front of them. George widened his eyes with fear once he saw the pip boy on his right hand, and he stumbled out of his seat, running behind the nearest thing possible, which just so happened to be a large wooden crate.

What the hell was _he_ doing here!? This was way outta D.C, did he expand his territory? Did he get bored with the capital wasteland? This was ten miles away from that shithole! The Lone Wanderer of vault 101, Jesus H. Christ, forget it, his luck was shit.

After George dived behind the crate, he heard gunshots, and the sound of metal bouncing off of metal. Soon, the gunshots ceased along with the cries of his friends. Tears streamed down the sides of George's face, and he found himself holding his hands together.

"God I'm sorry for all the bad things I've done!" He shouted. "I'll be a good person from now on I swear!"

George never believed in god, but coming face to face with someone who was essentially the devil, where else do you go to? Soon the Lone Wanderer walked around the crate, and the madman chuckled. George promptly pissed his brown ragged pants, his teeth chattering.

"Oh lookie here." The monster said, pointing the bloodied knife at George. "Someone made a no-no in their diaper. You done praying to the god you don't believe in yet pussy?"

George raised his hands to the maniac in the power armor.

"Please man let me live! I'll do whatever you want I promise!" George shouted, his entire body shaking with fear.

"Oh god. Just give me a damned fight! You're gonna die either way you worthless piece of shit. Fuckin' hell. I hate assholes like you." He said. "You sit there, and plead and beg for your lives. Can't you stand up for yourself? I'm gonna fuck your shit up dude, I mean, fuck, I killed all of your butt-buddies, doesn't that make you even a _bit_ pissed off?"

"Please!" George shouted once more.

He then felt as an armored boot collided with his chin, knocking him flat on his back. George found it hard to move as the force of the blow rattled him. His legs did not obey his commands, and his vision was blurred.

George could discern the shape of the Lone Wanderer standing directly over him, and soon, he felt pain in his shoulder as a knife found its way into his right shoulder. George yelped in pain, and the knife exited, puncturing his gut next. The knife was pulled out once more, and he heard the Lone Wanderer cackle with glee, and he rapidly stabbed George over and over again all over his body.

The life soon left the young raiders body, and his hands went limp.

…

…

…

Michael stepped away from the old office building, stuffing all of the raider's index fingers into his bag. He wiped the blood off on the dirt, and sheathed it at his hip. He looked to the ground, and clenched his fist.

When would something kill him…?

That was all he wanted, Michael just wanted to die, nothing else. After killing the enclave, he didn't really have a reason to keep living other than… well endless killing. Shouldn't life be more… fulfilling than that? Murdering the scum of the wasteland had become nothing more than a habit. He didn't need to do it, he just wanted too.

He's faced all kinds of humans, robots, and mutants, but so far, nothing has been able to kill him. It was infuriating. He would kill himself, but… something held him back from doing so. Michael didn't know if it was some deep rooted cowardice, or will to live, but he just couldn't do it.

All he wanted was death. There wasn't anything else in this worthless world that he wanted, but sadly, it was seemingly the one thing he couldn't get his hands on. He had become… for lack of better words; to badass to be killed.

There had to be something out there, _something_ that was capable of putting him out of his misery. He needed to end this existential nightmare. Michael sighed, and began walking back to Megaton, none the… well, deader.

After an hour of putting one foot in front of the other, the sun had set over the ruins of the old world. Michael stopped in his tracks, and looked up to the darkening blue sky. If he couldn't die… he at least wanted a purpose in life.

Something that was more than meaningless killing. Something that could make his heart burn with a fiery hot passion. Whatever that purpose was, he wasn't going to find it here in the capital wasteland. He took in a deep breath, and released it.

Michael came to a decision.

…

…

…

The Lone Wanderer hoisted a massive rucksack full of gear onto his shoulders. It was full of all sorts of weapons, along with food and water of course. Dogmeat sat next to his bed, tilting his head at his master in question. Michael smiled, leaning down to pet the dog with his armored hand.

He stood back up, and shuffled out of the doorway.

"Come on boy. We're going on an excellent adventure." Michael said.

The dog barked with joy, and marched up right alongside of him. He walked down his stairs for what may be the final time, and found Wadsworth waiting at the front door.

"Where might you be going sir?" Wadsworth asked him. "You usually get stone cold drunk at this hour and throw things at me until you pass out."

"I can throw some more things at you if ya want you dumb hunk of iron." Michael said.

Wadsworth brought his middle eye closer to Michael's visor.

"My chassis is not made up of iron, it is made up of-"

"It's made up of nobody cares." Michael said, cutting the robot off. "I'm leaving Wadsworth, and I don't think I'll be coming back. Do whatever the fuck you want to."

Wadsworth then quickly turned around, and twisted the doorknob with his pincers, flying out of the door into the night. Michael simply stood there, and blinked.

"What the fuck…" He mumbled. "Well, whatever floats your boat you metal fuck bucket."

Dogmeat stepped outside along with his master, and Michael shut the door behind him. Sadly, he couldn't take everything he's collected with him; it was simply too much weight for him to bear. The bag he had on was twice his size, and looked damned comical on him. The only reason he was able to carry the damned thing was because of the additional strength his power armor offered him.

It was a lot of shit.

He shut the door behind him, and pinned a note on the door with an old red thumbtack. Michael backed away a few steps, and allowed himself a small giggle. He turned around, and saw Jericho's small metal shack, grinning madly beneath his helmet. He looked to Dogmeat, and pointed to the front of the door.

"Go potty." He said.

The dog obeyed, and shit in front of Jericho's door. Pompous old bastard, Michael's never liked that douchebag. After Dogmeat was finished with his business, he walked back over to Michael and sat down. Michael pet the dog.

"Good boy. Let's get the fuck outta dodge." Michael said. "Well, first I have to deliver a few letters."

…

…

…

Sherriff Simms was concerned when Jericho came bursting into his house as he was drinking coffee. The balding ex-raider looked positively furious, and he clutched a piece of paper tightly in his right hand. Simms raised an eyebrow at Jericho, leaning back in his old metal chair. It was pretty early in the morning, and Jericho usually slept in, so him just barging in was bizarre.

Then again, any man just storming into his home like that would usually be shot in the face. However, Jericho had lived in Megaton for years, so Simms was inclined to listen to whatever he was getting ready to bitch about.

"Lucas!" He shouted, slamming the piece of paper down on the wooden table. "Read this paper!"

Simms sighed, and placed his coffee down on the table, grabbing the piece of paper.

"This better not be a waste of my time Jericho." Lucas said, unfolding the crumpled up piece of white paper.

The contents of the letter read as such: " _Dear Megaton, I hate it here in the capital wasteland now, so I decided to fuck off, probably for good. I don't know when, or if I'll ever be back, so just use whatever the fuck you want out of my armory. I don't care. I did take all the good shit though, sorry. Also, to Jericho, I told Dogmeat to shit on your doorstep before I left. That shit was funny as fuck, I hope you drink bleach and kill yourself, bye."_

"I see…" Lucas said, folding the letter shut once more.

"His dog shit on my front door Sherriff! That asshole!" Jericho shouted. "I'm gonna-"

"Do what exactly? Chase him wherever he's going just because his dog did its business on your front door?" Simms said, laying the paper down on the table along with his coffee cup. "Even if you did go after him, do you really think you'd have a chance at killing him? The guy's fought off an entire army of power armored maniacs and super mutants. Just forget about it." Lucas said.

Jericho clenched his teeth, but did not say anything in response. He simply turned around, and slammed the door shut. Lucas leaned back in his seat, and let out a whistle. Michael really just up and left? Why? Was it really because he just didn't like it here anymore? It wasn't like any other part of the world was better off, at least he thought so.

Where was Michael planning on going off too? If not anywhere in the capital wasteland, then where would his journey take him? Lucas admitted to himself that he kind of had a soft spot for the kid, so a part of him was slightly worried as to what might happen to him.

Lucas heard a knocking at his door, and he stood up, walking over too it. He pulled it open, and saw Collin Moriarty standing there, his white hair and beard looking oily. He smelled of alcohol, and he held up a paper to the sheriff's face.

"I got a letter here from Mikey boy telling me to kill myself by drinking bleach." He said in his fake Irish accent. "I expect you to handle him accordingly Simms."

Lucas leaned on his doorframe.

"Can't. He left. Probably for good." Lucas said.

Moriarty's eyes widened, and he grinned.

"I call all the stuff in his house." The old man said.

Lucas rolled his eyes.

"The belongings in Michael's home will be split up between everyone, and the weapons are going in the armory Collin." Simms said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Sherriff!" He heard another man yell from behind the bartender.

The man who shouted was nothing more than another drifter who had settled down in Megaton only a few months ago, and he held up a piece of paper.

"I got a piece of paper here from Michael that says I should kill myself by drinking bleach!" He shouted.

Lucas raised a hand to him.

"Look I-"The sheriff started before he was cut off once more.

"Sherriff! That baffoon Michael has disrespected the name of atom by leaving the note on his heavenly body!" Confessor Cromwell shouted, his brown raggedy clothes stained from years of activity.

Lucas snatched the letter from the confessor's hand, and read it.

" _Dear confessor Cromcunt, your religion is a lie and everyone in Megaton thinks you're annoying as hell. Please do the world a favor and asphyxiate yourself until you die. Or you could get radiation poisoning from drinking out of that damned bomb water until you get terminal seven cancer. Also, I feel the need to reiterate what I said earlier in this letter, everyone in town who isn't part of your retarded bomb cult thinks you suck._

 _Love, Michael._

 _P.S. Kill yourself."_

 _I shit in the bomb water like a week ago, that's why it's a bit brown and smellier than usual._

"There are letters just like that scattered around town!" Cromwell shouted. "There aren't any letters on the doors of those who have earned that sinners favor, but this will not stand!" Cromwell yelled once more.

Lucas sighed. Michael just made his day a helluva lot harder.

 **Hey! You actually read the whole thing without committing suicide! That's rare. Anyway, leave a review, or Michael will send you a mean letter, and I mean what I say.**


End file.
